


throw your cameras in the air/ and wave them like you just dont care

by enjolrarses



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mentions of Marius Pontmercy - Freeform, Panic Attacks, Social Media, Trans Character, Trans Character(s), Trans Enjolras, YouTube, non-binary character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5519498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjolrarses/pseuds/enjolrarses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I think I found your YouTube guy, ‘Ferre,” said Enjolras, scowling at his laptop screen.</p><p>“Yeah?” asked Combeferre absently. “I did point him towards your videos when he started on mob mentality.”</p><p>“He’s an asshole,” said Enjolras firmly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. AREA MAN UNINTERESTED IN CREATING A BETTER COMMUNITY EVEN THOUGH THIS MAY BENEFIT HIM IN THE LONG RUN

**Author's Note:**

> merry christmas and happy holidays! just a few notes to thank @codycakie and @delphinefuckingcormier on tumblr for cheering me on and everyone else who said nice things about the few excerpts i put up over the last few months.
> 
> this au would not have been possible without this youtube video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PlZfuQsU2kU, where i got the idea. also, story title from fall out boy's song (coffee's for closers).

 

_“This sceptic's name was Grantaire, and he was in the habit of signing himself with this rebus: R.” -Victor Hugo, Les Misérables_

  
  


**DrunkR- INAPPROPRIATE PLACEMENT OF INSECTS**

 

         GrandR

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**Published on August 13, 2015**

_moths and spiders are the scariest motherflockers fight me on this_

 

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**Nicholaos Combeferre**

 

While I know that phobias are irrational and you have no control over them, your portrayal of moths ignores the incredible diversity displayed by these fantastic creatures. There are approximately 160 000 different species of moth! Although you are referring primarily to the _Tineola bisselliella_ , generally regarded as a pest, it is important for people to note that it is not the only type of moth out there. I don’t mean to preach to you, but I thought that you might appreciate more knowledge on a subject that obvious has significance to you in your general life, and if it might help you to face your fears you should read up on it! It is very interesting and more people should know about it!

 

**GrandR**

my english isnt good enough for this. sorry, mothman

 

**Nicholaos Combeferre**

 

There is a translate button _right there_.

  


***

 

“ _Right there_. He could have just- no. It doesn’t matter.” Combeferre inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm down. “He’s just a guy on the Internet. Internet people are wrong all the time.”

 

“You’re beginning to sound like Enjolras, you know.”

 

Combeferre winced, but he had to admit that Courfeyrac was right. That had been a particularly Enjolras-esque thing to say. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just frustrating.”

 

Courfeyrac propped his chin up on his hand. “What’s wrong, anyway? You know not everyone appreciates moths like you do.”

 

“You can say it. No-one. No-one appreciates moths like I do.”

 

“Don’t make that face. I promise I won’t let you turn into the crazy moth man.” The light from the bay window behind him illuminated him, although Combeferre couldn’t say that it made him look angelic. Courfeyrac had left angelic behind too early in his childhood, barrelling straight into trouble with a smile on his face and a hell on his mind.

 

The door to the tiny kitchen opened. “I think it’s too late for that,” said Enjolras wryly as he walked in, dumping his bag on the table next to Courfeyrac’s elbow. “Although, come to think of it, I thought you’d left the moth thing alone a while back. What gives?”

 

“Some guy on the Internet didn’t read ‘Ferre’s explanation of why he shouldn’t be mottephobic, because it was in English.”

 

“Why should he have to? Why are we all expected to learn the language of a frankly lazy country that refuses to show us the same basic courtesy? To be taken seriously on an international level we have to have at least an intermediate knowledge of the language, when more people speak Mandarin Chinese than English and Spanish combined.” Enjolras could make an argument out of anything, which more than made up for the fact that unless he was arguing he couldn’t string more than two sentences together.

 

“You know, I remember when you were too shy to open your mouth around us. Remember that? Also, while I completely agree that the expectation that we learn to communicate in English without reciprocation is ridiculous, Youtube comments have a translate option.”  He surveyed the kitchen counter, with its small mountain of dishes, and sighed. “I don’t suppose either of you are going to do this?”

 

“I don’t even live here,” Courfeyrac protested. “Don’t look at me!”

 

“Is he French?” asked Enjolras curiously.

 

“Who, the Youtube guy? I think so, the accent was right for it. And seriously, Enj, do the dishes sometimes.”

 

“Maybe you should make a chore wheel,” Courfeyrac suggested. “Marius and I have one, they’re great.”

Combeferre raised an eyebrow. “Can you see really see Enjolras using a _chore wheel_?”

 

“You’ve got a point.”

 

“I could use a chore wheel,” Enjolras protested. “What? I could!”

 

“Enjolras, you have trouble remembering to check your messages, let alone a chore wheel.”

 

“It’s okay,” Courfeyrac leaned over and patted his arm. “We get it. You’re married to France. It’s a big responsibility.” He grinned at the indignant look on Enjolras’ face.

 

“Just because I’m dedicated to the cause-”

 

“Hey! I’m dedicated to the cause as well! Of course, I wasn’t the one who announced their intention to marry their country in the middle of a protest…”

 

“It was a _comment_ on the ridiculous nature of the marriage laws at the time!” Enjolras’ face had bloomed red, much like a trampled tomato. “And it was _three years ago_.”

 

“I never forget an embarrassing story,” said Courfeyrac with a smile on his face. “And you, my friend, have a litany of embarrassing stories.” Of course, Enjolras had embarrassing stories only because he was embarrassed easily; for a would-be revolutionary leader, he had remarkably thin skin. A lot of things were remarkable about Enjolras. He was a mess of contradictions. Combeferre loved him anyway.

 

“Well, if neither of you are going to do the dishes, I’m going to have to,” he sighed. “One of you is going to have to dry, though. I’m not doing it  all on my own.”

 

Courfeyrac looked indignant. “I reiterate: I don’t actually live here.”

 

“Yeah, but you’re here often enough that at least half of these dishes are yours,” Enjolras pointed out, although he was grabbing the tea towel while he said it. “Honestly, it’s only fair that you help.”

 

“Fine. You dry, I’ll put away.” He pulled away from the table with a show of reluctance, but when he took a glass, Combeferre could see the small smile on his face at being included.

 

***

 

**SoberR- THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF PEACEFUL LIFE**

 

         GrandR

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**Published on August 29, 2015**

_people as individuals can change, but humanity won’t._

  


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**Nicholaos Combeferre**

 

Your point of view is too cynical and fatalistic to prove an entirely impartial argument on this topic. While I agree that mob mentality makes a heavy impact on the way society functions as a whole, mob mentality is not inherently negative. Just because it influences popular thought through generalization doesn’t mean that humanity can’t grow and learn, or that it cannot be used it a positive light, such as in protests. My friend did a video about it if you’d like to see: [www.youtube.com/watch?v=gMYNfQlf1H8](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gMYNfQlf1H8)

 

**GrandR**

are you

are you the moth guy?

again?

 

***

 

**How Mob Mentality Can Help Protest Issues**

 

         ViveLaRévolution

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**Published on August 12, 2015**

_It is our responsibility as citizens of our respective countries to fight for our rights, and protesting is our number one avenue for change. Sometimes, the change needs a catalyst, and the mob can be this catalyst._

  


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**GrandR**

 

but arent u an advocate for peace? mob mentality will devolve quickly into violence if left unchecked. given the right impetus, any mob can become a riot, leaving thousands dead. a mob will let people fight as they wouldn’t given individual focus, under the cover of anonymity. people are better left as individuals than in a group.

 

**ViveLaRévolution**

Your argument is based on the assumption that people are inherently violent and that it is a given that they will incite violence. While humanity has a history of  war, it is undeniable that a wider pool of resources and wealth shared equally about the people will temper this. Aggression is often based on a) entitlement or b) need, and people who have neither are far less likely to participate in violent acts.

 

**GrandR**

 

people who belong to a completely equal utopia are also unlikely to participate protests. you know who does participate in protests? angry people. you know who the people most likely to start shit are? angry people. as long as there is a need for protest there will be violence, and as long as there is violence nothing will get done. face it, it’s useless. you might as well give up.

 

**ViveLaRévolution**

 

How can I give up, when my people are oppressed? I will never give up until me and mine, and all the other citizens of the world, are able to walk freely, without fear of discrimination or recrimination. Just because you have given up, does not mean us others have, too.

  


***

 

“I think I found your YouTube guy, ‘Ferre,” said Enjolras, scowling at his laptop screen.

 

“Yeah?” asked Combeferre absently. “I did point him towards your videos when he started on mob mentality.”

 

“He’s an asshole,” said Enjolras firmly.

 

“What did he do?” asked Combeferre, walking over to where Enjolras was sitting on the couch.

 

“He said that any mob could become a riot and that we shouldn’t even try.”

“He did not- oh. Okay, he did. I couldn’t even get him to give me even the suggestion of a coherent response, how did you do it?”

 

“What- Ferre! That’s not the point!” He shut his laptop with an annoyed huff. “His argument is unresearched and argumentative, and-”

 

“And he got what he wanted- he got under your skin. Actually, I’m more offended by the fact that he pretended not to know English when he’s obviously fluent in it.” Combeferre frowned. “That’s rude.” The comment was standoffish and unnecessarily argumentative, although Combeferre had to admit that he made some valid points. “This could be good for you, Enjolras. You need to learn to take other people’s points into consideration. If your argument can’t adapt to refute a point absolutely or use it to prove your own side, it wasn’t a good argument in the first place.”

 

***

 

“So what you’re saying is that he’s been arguing with Enjolras in fluent English for the past week, and you’re annoyed about it.” Courfeyrac didn’t look nearly as perturbed about it as Combeferre thought he should be, to be honest. It had been a week, and he was still annoyed that he’d pretended not to be able to read Combeferre’s response; Courfeyrac, as his concerned boyfriend, should really have been annoyed _with_ him, for support.

 

“That’s the long and short of it,” said Combeferre, curling his hands around the coffee he was handed by the overworked waitress. They were at a small coffee shop about a block away from their university, which was was Enjolras-approved, and somehow still managed to keep afloat- which probably said more about their proximity to the university and its caffeine-deprived students than anything else.

 

“I mean, it’s not really that big a deal, is it?” asked Courfeyrac, taking a long pull from his drink. He was tired, Combeferre could tell. The expertly winged eyeliner he wore didn’t cover up the dark circles under his eyes.

 

“I guess not, but it still rankles.” He slouched in his chair and crossed his legs. “But enough about my problems with minor Internet personalities. What’s going on with you? You look-”

 

“-Like shit?” Courfeyrac gave him a wry smile. “I had _the worst_ night, oh my god. You’ll never believe this. So, Marius, right?”

 

“Say no more.”

 

“No, no, you’ll want to hear this. He got back at like two in the morning, just after I’d gone to bed, and  _got me out of bed_ just to tell me all about what he’d been doing all night, which apparently was stalking some poor girl and her father! So while I was up slaving away at my Humanities paper-”

 

“Which you wouldn’t have been doing if you had done it in the _weeks_ that you had to do it,” Combeferre pointed out.

 

“-He was pursuing and possibly _scarring for life_ respectable people,” Courfeyrac continued regardless. “Apparently they were just chilling in the park and he went up and stared at them for like ten minutes? At least that’s what I gathered between the sighs and the rhapsodizing. And then! You’ll never believe this, ‘Ferre, when they left he went over to their seat and picked up the handkerchief which he swears she dropped. I tried to tell him that it was probably just some rando in the park before them- honestly, who carries handkerchiefs anymore? But he refused to believe me. He’s decided that her name is Ursula and that he’s going out shopping for new clothes because of her. Anyway, by the time he’d told me all of this, it’s two hours later and I’m tired as fuck.”

 

“He’s _your_ best friend.”

 

Courfeyrac dropped his head into his hands. “I _know_.”

 

“You’re serious? He actually took the handkerchief? That’s really creepy, even for Marius.”

 

Courfeyrac nodded. “He took the handkerchief. I’m pretty sure that he slept with it. It’s got a U stitched on it, that’s why he thinks her name is Ursula? That bit might be my fault, I made him watch _The Little Mermaid_ with me the other day, but it’s not like I made him name her after an evil sea-witch.” He lifted his head back up to give Combeferre a pout.

 

“Ursula was a complex character that can’t be reduced to such a simple description,” Combeferre reminded him. “If you ask me, the real villain of the film was King Triton.”

 

“Yes, I know, you’ve said,” said Courfeyrac impatiently. “There’s a reason that I didn’t ask you to watch it with me, as much as I love you. You tend to go on.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Don’t be, it’s one of the things I love about you. Just not in the middle of one of my favourite films. Which, may I add, Marius may have ruined forever. You know that if I try and watch it again, all I’ll be thinking of is his poor victim in all of this. I can’t believe I used to have a crush on him.”

 

“Neither can I, actually. What did you ever see in him?”

 

“He’s cute, until he starts to talk. Then he just gets aggravating. I mean, I love him, he’s my best friend, but you can tell that his grandfather didn’t believe in television. Or the Internet. Or just a computer, for that matter.”

 

“Maybe you can see if you can get Joly to diagnose him with something? Keep him occupied, that sort of thing. You know Joly would be up for it.”

 

“Yeah, but what if Joly actually decided that he was sick? Last time Joly medicated one of us, he did it with alcohol.”

 

Combeferre snorted. “That was a joke, he didn’t actually think that Enjolras was- well, whatever he said, I can’t remember.” He gave Courfeyrac a smile. “He just wanted to see if he could get him drunk. I’m in the same course as him, trust me. When he actually thinks someone is sick, it’s a lot worse. You remember the pneumonia debacle.”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Courfeyrac grinned. “That was great. I don’t think I’ve seen so much soup in my entire life.”

 

“Yeah, well, you weren’t on the receiving end of it,” Combeferre grumbled. “I’m pre-med, I knew perfectly well what I had. It was _just a cold_.”

 

“It’s a moot point, anyway. ‘Chetta texted me earlier, apparently they’re all going out with some drinking buddies of theirs tonight, she wanted to know if I wanted to come. Apparently Bahorel’s going.”

 

“You didn’t want to go?”

 

Courfeyrac raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Do I look like I could go out right now, let alone ‘tour all the bars in Paris’?”

 

“Tour all the bars in Paris? Seriously?”

 

“On my honour,” Courfeyrac said seriously, although a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “One of their friends is a bar expert, or something, although at the time I thought it was pun about the bar exam and she was talking about Bahorel. Apparently not. I asked xir, and xe said it was some guy that xe does boxing with.”

 

Combeferre blew out a huff of air. “Sounds intense.”

 

“Eh, it’s not that bad.”

 

“Okay, it sounds intense for someone who didn’t make it their personal goal to pickle their liver before 20.”

 

“We grow and we learn,” said Courfeyrac cheerfully, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “Anyway, enough of this conversation. I can’t believe that I’ve been on a date with my unbearably hot boyfriend for over a hour and we haven’t made out once.”

 

Smiling, Combeferre leaned forward to mirror him. “We’ll have to rectify that, won’t we?”

 

“We will,” said Courfeyrac solemnly, before capturing his lips in a kiss.

 

***

  


**Of Course Aliens Exist**

 

         ViveLaRévolution

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**Published on September 13, 2015**

_Combeferre made me._

  


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**GrandR**

can u tell combeferre that he is a precious little optimistic nerd?

 

**ViveLaRévolution**

First of all, don’t be so patronising. It’s demeaning to Combeferre, who is one of the smartest people I know.

Second, you can tell him yourself.

 

***

 

**SoberR- ALIENS ARE A HOAX**

 

         GrandR

         Subscribe | 993,413

 

**Published on September 14, 2015**

_suck it, spaceheads_

  


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**Nicholaos Combeferre**

So far, scientists have estimated that there are about 20 billion Earth-like planets, just in our galaxy. They also believe that there are about one hundred billion galaxies in the universe, with 70 billion trillion stars between them. To presume that our planet is the only one that can sustain life is not only short-sighted, it’s egotistical and self-centered. As much as humanity might wish it to, the universe does not actually revolve about us.

 

**GrandR**

ur a precious little optimistic nerd

 

**Nicholaos Combeferre**

Thanks.

 

***

 

The Café Musain existed in an ever-present haze of bad lighting and what used to be cigarette smoke.  It was ostensibly a restaurant and bar, although as far as anyone knew there were very few people who ever ate dinner there without being plied with obscene amounts of alcohol. It was tucked away in the Latin Quarter. No one knew how long it had been there. Perhaps it had been there since the start; certainly it had been there since the founding of _Les Amis de l’ABC_.

 

 _Les Amis de l’ABC_ had been founded by republican university students in the 19th Century, and had survived much like a fungal growth on the side of the government. Although they been various levels of annoying throughout the years, the entire of Paris could agree that they had never been so outright inflammatory since the original June Rebellion. The current administration was absurdly liberal, and a thorn in the side of every person that had tried to get rid of them, or at least discredit them. The problem was that, unlike their revolutionary counterparts, they went out of their way to avoid violence of any sort.

 

There had been three different attempts to disrupt their protests, each one of them resulting in the expert dispersing of the crowd, rather than the riot that the police had wanted. It was an embarrassment to the _Préfecture de police de Paris_ that had an almost permanent file open on them. Despite their long association with the Musain- which could also be compared to a fungal infection, albeit one on the Place Saint-Michel rather than the government itself- no one had been able to find anything about _Les Amis_ other than speculation.

 

In fact, that they still occupied the same back room in the Musain seemed to be a boon to them. The patrons of the once proud establishment had an uncanny eye for both cops and narcs, and even though it was common knowledge that it was full of criminals and degenerates, as soon as one walked in the whole place was suddenly as clean as a whistle. The business of revolution thrived on it.

 

Every Tuesday night, _Les Amis_ would meet. They would troop through the haze in the front, some taking drinks from the regulars, and some charming the bartenders into giving them discounts for snacks and the like, before congregating in the back room that had hardly changed since the group was first formed.

 

***

 

Enjolras yawned, bringing his arms up behind him to stretch. The material of his top rode up enough to see his binder underneath.

 

“Is that my shirt?” asked Courfeyrac curiously.

 

“Yes.” Though the shirt had been in Enjolras’ closet for long enough that it could be reasonably attributed to him, it was obviously brought by Courfeyrac. Though Enjolras continued his love affair with crop tops, they were not usually pink and covered with sequins.

 

“I thought so,” said Courfeyrac, tipping his seat back. Although he was sitting next to Combeferre, they hadn’t had much chance to talk so far. The meeting had been more intense than usual, and Courfeyrac’s attention had been mostly taken up with Jehan weaving flowers into his hair throughout.

 

“You don’t mind, do you?” asked Enjolras. “It was the first thing I picked up this morning, and I find that I rather like it.”

 

“No, it’s fine. I didn’t think you liked sequins, though.”

 

“It’s just- well. You remember Combeferre’s Youtube guy?”

 

“The guy you’ve been arguing with for like the last month?” Courfeyrac leaned forward. “I think I know who you’re talking about.”

 

“Yeah, well, he said that guys couldn’t wear sequins without being subject to constant ridicule, so…”

 

“So you grabbed my shirt?” Courfeyrac laughed and tipped back in his chair. “How’s that going for you?”

 

“Well, I haven’t been ridiculed, so in that respect it’s going well, although I have been catcalled at least ten times today, so really I don’t think it’s working.”

 

“Well, if you can do it and not get called names or anything, then his theory is disproved,” said Jehan with a smile. They were also wearing flowers throughout their hair, and had a pile in front of them for more. “You’re a guy, and you’re not being ridiculed for wearing sequins, so his point is invalid.”

 

Enjolras smiled, and tapped a couple of keys on his laptop to bring up the Youtube homepage. “I might just tell him that. Thanks, Jehan.”

 

“No problem,” they said. “Do you want flowers? I have plans for everyone, if I can catch them. You might as well submit now and save yourself trouble.”

 

“After this?” Enjolras asked, typing furiously. “I’ll pack up and then- oh, that _motherfucker_.”

 

“What’s he done now?” asked Combeferre curiously. The rest of the _Amis_ had perked up with interest as well, now. Musichetta had even leaned over to see the screen.

 

“He asked if being mistaken for a girl wasn’t a sort of ridicule in itself in a patriarchal society,” Enjolras replied through gritted teeth. “I’m gonna fucking show him _patriarchal society_ , I swear to God-”

 

“Is that Grantaire’s channel?” asked Musichetta.

 

“What?”

 

“I think we know the guy- hey, Bossuet, that’s R’s channel, isn’t it?”

 

Bossuet craned his head to see. “Oh yeah, that’s it. Look, it’s recommending that video of me tripping in different ways.”

 

“You know this guy?”

 

“Yeah, he went to school with Joly and me. He’s the one we went out with the other day! I swear, he knows _everyone_ in Paris, he-”

 

“Can you tell him that he’s an asshole from me?” Enjolras interrupted. “He doesn’t seem to listen when I tell him.”

 

Bossuet laughed. “You can tell him yourself, I think we’ve nearly worn him down on coming to these meetings. We’ll bring him next week, I’m sure.”  


“I can’t wait,” said Enjolras, deadpan.

 

“He’s a nice person, really,” said Musichetta diplomatically. “He just likes to argue. And doesn’t like conviction. I expect that all he’s seen of you is your channel, so he just doesn’t know you like we do.”

 

Bahorel leaned over to pinch Enjolras’ cheek. “Yeah, you’re just a ball of floof that R doesn’t know how to deal with. Floof and revolutionary spirit. Of course, if he’d met you in person he’d know what you really are…”

 

“And what is that?”

 

“Floof, revolutionary spirit, and inexplicable hero-worship for my girlfriend.”

 

Scowling, Enjolras brushed xir hand off his cheek. “It’s not inexplicable. Feuilly is great, and everyone should love her like I do. All she’s been through!”

 

“I’m more than the sum of my problems,” Feuilly pointed out dryly. “I’ve done other stuff, too.”

 

“Yes, but the knowledge you have, the people you’ve helped… I would not be half the person that I am without you and your guidance. Feuilly, you’re an exemplary human being.”

 

“Thanks, _Ange,_ but you’re not too shabby yourself. So who is this guy, anyway?”

 

“Combeferre’s YouTube guy. You know the one.” replied Courfeyrac.

 

“The one with the moths?”

 

“That’s the one.”

 

“Can we get over the moths?” asked Combeferre. “It was one time, and I only know the stuff because I wanted to be an entomologist in high school.”

 

“I wasn’t the one who started an Internet fight over it,” Courfeyrac pointed out. “Actually, I wouldn’t call it a fight. It’s almost like a relationship. I’m not the one who started a _long-lasting Internet relationship_ because of him.”

 

“I can’t be in an Internet relationship with him, because I’m in one with _you_.”

 

“Did I ever say that the relationship was between you two?”

 

“Who’s it between, then?” asked Enjolras absentmindedly. His face was pink with anger, and he was still typing furiously. Combeferre almost expected the keys to melt, for holes to bore through the laptop screen with the intensity of his stare. It would have been frightening, if Enjolras didn’t have the average size and demeanor of an angry kitten.

 

“If I was going to guess, I’d say it was the guy _currently talking to him,_ ” said Combeferre in disbelief. “Is there no end point? You know, if he doesn’t agree with you yet, it’s probably not going to happen.”

 

That apparently was enough for Enjolras to join the land of the living again. “It’s not just about arguing, though. His arguments, they’re… well, they’re all bullshit, but they’re _good bullshit_. He knows his bullshit. He probably aced all his classes with the power of his bullshit.”

 

“Then why do you look like you want to punch the laptop screen?”

 

“Probably because I want to punch the laptop screen. He’s aggravating. I think he’s trying to be an asshole.”

 

Courfeyrac stretched. “This isn’t exactly news, though. I think we figured that out when it turned out he was fluent in English.”

 

Musichetta let out a short laugh. “Yeah, that’s our Grantaire. He- well. He doesn’t believe in change, that’s all.”

 

“Or anything, really,” added Joly. “He’s remarkably resistant to everything but bitter cynicism, and weird bar stories. It’s like, he doesn't believe in the power of a good petition, but he’ll believe that Bahorel double backflipped off the Eiffel Tower.”

 

“Sounds unfulfilling.” Enjolras, Combeferre thought, could probably tone down the disapproval. It was the reason strangers believed he was some sort of revolutionary robot; he believed in his causes with such fervor that he tended to forget that other people didn’t put as much stock in liberalism. It was probably a byproduct of surrounding himself with people as dedicated as he was, to different extents. Even when not focusing on work, he was never by a dissenting voice.

 

“Can you be unfulfilled if you don’t know what you’re missing?” asked Joly. “And anyway, I don’t think it’s that he hasn’t been introduced to activism yet, it’s just that he’s seen a lot, you know? He was a war photographer for a couple of years, and when he came back it was like he just… stopped believing. In anything. Which sounds terrible, but it’s how he copes, and if that helps him, then who am I to judge?”

 

Enjolras stared at him. “You’re a doctor, Joly. I think it’s _exactly_ your place to judge.”

 

“I’m a med student,” Joly corrected, “and not believing in anything is much better than other coping mechanisms that I’ve seen in my illustrious career as a sleep-deprived coffee repository. I mean, I’m sure that you’ve noticed he drinks a lot, but it’s not really more than the rest of us do, he’s just more vocal about it. Also, he’s a lightweight.”

 

“Are you sure that you should be telling me this?” asked Enjolras curiously. “this seems kind of… personal.”

 

“Oh, sure,” said Bossuet brightly. “He’s told this all to the entire Internet, I don’t think telling you is such a stretch.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah. Maybe you should watch them? The videos, I mean. If you want to know the real Grantaire, that’s probably your best bet. Anything he’s likely to show you of himself is on there anyway.”

 

“He keeps a lot of himself to himself, does our R,” added Musichetta. “He’s like one of those little Russian dolls with all the layers.”

 

“Or Shrek,” chimed Joly.

 

“Or Shrek,” she agreed. “But he’s a good friend. you couldn’t ask for better.” She stood up and pulled her jacket off the back of the chair. “And on that note, I think it’s about time we were off. C’mon, boys.”

 

Enjolras stared after them as they left. “Small world, huh?”

 

“Yeah,” said Combeferre. “Are you going to watch the videos?”

 

“I don’t know.”

  
Combeferre smiled. In Enjolras-speak, that was almost as good as a yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anyone who's interested but did not actually click on it, the link in to enjy's mob mentality video goes to a youtube clip of 'do you hear the people sing'.
> 
> Chapter 1 title is an actual onion title which can be found here: http://www.theonion.com/article/area-man-uninterested-in-creating-a-better-communi-2755


	2. HUMAN CIVILIZATION BRINGS OUT THE WORST IN AREA MAN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “People are pretty used to Les Amis here,” said Chetta cheerfully, as she pushed open the door to the back room to reveal a small space taken up by a table, around which sat the most motley assortment of people that Grantaire had laid eyes on. “We’ve been coming here for so long, we’re like, a permanent fixture, or something. They’re nice.”
> 
>  
> 
> “They look like they’d knife their own mothers for the life insurance,” said Grantaire flatly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for everyone who has read, commented, or left kudos (or messaged me on tumblr)! a few notes on this chapter: i am not french, and i have never been to france. i tried my best with google, but if there is anything that you see is wrong, do not hesitate to shoot me a message and i'll see what i can do to fix it!
> 
> also, i imagine enjolras as anthony ramos. just so you know.

_“Throw your cameras in the air / And wave them like you just don't care / I will never believe in anything again / I will never believe in anything again / Though change will come / Oh change will come / I will never believe in anything again.”- Fall Out Boy, (Coffee’s For Closers)_

 

It wasn’t like Grantaire had never been to the Musain before. He prided himself on having a close relationship with most, if not all, the bartenders in the near vicinity of his apartment. The Musain was close enough that he could walk there and back while drunk and dragging Bahorel behind him- although that wasn’t something that he was proud to know.

 

It felt different this time, though. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta were obviously familiar with the Tuesday crowd, picking through the front of the bar with ease; being dragged behind someone in a bar wasn’t a familiar feeling for Grantaire, alcoholic connoisseur that he was. People tipped their drinks to Chetta, moved out of the way for Joly and his cane. It was too close to genuine kindness than Grantaire had come to expect from to kind of people that frequented places like the Musain, places where blood painted the floor from a century’s worth of dirty deals and bar fights. Someone even stopped Bossuet from tripping over his own feet, righting him and dusting him off before sending him on his way.

 

“People are pretty used to _Les Amis_ here,” said Chetta cheerfully, as she pushed open the door to the back room to reveal a small space taken up by a table, around which sat the most motley assortment of people that Grantaire had laid eyes on. “We’ve been coming here for so long, we’re like, a permanent fixture, or something. They’re nice.”

 

“They look like they’d knife their own mothers for the life insurance,” said Grantaire flatly.

 

“Yeah, but we’re poor university students,” replied one the the _Amis_ with a quick grin, lounging on a chair about halfway down the table. “It’s not like they could get anything from _us_.”

 

“‘Courf, you have a trust fund,” said the person sat next to him.

 

“Don’t we all?” asked Grantaire, seating himself next to them. They were surrounded by a pile of papers, but neither of them looked like they were particularly interested in them- not that Grantaire blamed them. From what he could see, they were tax forms or something similar.

 

“I don’t!” they laughed, leaning over to offer their hand for him to shake. “Hey, I’m Feuilly.”

 

“So _you’re_ Feuilly,” said Grantaire as he shook her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

 

“From Bahorel, right? I’ve had many complaints about xir not being able to shut up about me.” She pushed dark red hair out of her face and smiled softly. “I love xir, really, but there’s a reason I don’t go bar hopping with xir anymore, and it’s not because of the constant misgendering.” 

 

“Is that why I’ve never met you before?”

 

“Maybe,” she smiled. “Also, Bahorel has a tendency to exaggerate. It’s worse when I’m there, trust me. Just because I’m already xir girlfriend doesn’t mean that xe isn’t constantly trying to impress me.”

 

“You mean that xe didn’t really climb Mount Rushmore last time xe was in the States?”

 

“No, because that would be illegal.” Feuilly had a smile on her face that Grantaire thought had been what had drawn Bahorel to her in the first place. She didn’t look as if she was mysterious naturally, but rather that she enjoyed playing the part- like perhaps she had been told throughout her life what was and what had to be, and now she kept things close to her chest for the novelty of having that option. Grantaire couldn’t imagine what that would be like himself. His experiences as a kid had been what most peoples’ had been- house in the suburbs, money enough to live comfortably, and a dog to boot. His trust fund notwithstanding.

 

He knew enough from Bahorel to know that Feuilly’s life was nothing like his. A foster kid, shuffled around the dirty underbelly of Paris by a broken and unforgiving system. Made to leave her religion and ethnicity behind as she was pushed through home after home. Being transgender as well, in a system where normalcy was prized- Feuilly was stronger than Grantaire would ever be. Bahorel had met her at _Les Amis_ \- xe’d said it had been back when _Les Amis_ was known as a safe space for transgender kids, with the recent appointment of Enjolras as president, and his drive to help other kids like him.

 

Bahorel had arrived while they were talking, had slung xir arm around the back of Feuilly’s chair. Xe grinned up at her. “Lies and slander!”

 

“Should I doubt all your stories now, Bahorel?” teased Grantaire.

 

“Never! R, you know me. Would I lie to you?”

 

Chetta snorted into her drink. “ _Yes_.”

 

Bahorel faked a gasp, reaching for xir beer in mock indignation. “Why should I even come, if my honour is to be so impugned? How could you bring such a snake to my bosom, Chetta, that would sink its poisoned fangs into my reputation as easily as it slithers among those I would call my friends, whispering such falsehoods into their ears?”

 

“Wait, I’m confused,” said Grantaire. “Am I the snake, or is it Chetta?”

 

“Oh, it’s you,” said Joly cheerfully. “Can’t you tell?”

 

“Well, _I_ can’t,” said the curly haired one that Feuilly had called _Courf_. “Although, personally, I think it’s the story about serenading Geneviève de Fontenay after entering _Miss France_ that’s the least believable. You’d never get in, I know, I’ve tried.”

 

“ _Et tu,_ de Courfeyrac?”

 

“Hey now, there’s no need for that kind of language! What will your guest think of me? _de Courfeyrac,_ my ass.” He had a look on his face that Grantaire would have taken for affronted, if it hadn’t been for the gleam in his eye. “But seriously, can you give me pointers on how to get in? Does it have to do with the terrible waistcoats? It’s the waistcoats, isn’t it? C’mon, if you ever loved me, give me this and I’ll believe all your stories forevermore.”

 

Bahorel put xir hand over xir heart. “I _might_ have told you, until you insulted my waistcoats in such a manner!”

 

Chetta rolled her eyes. “Drama queens. Both of you.”

 

de Courfeyrac sighed and nudged Grantaire’s side. “See how they gang up on me?”

 

“I was under the impression that _you_ were ganging up on _Bahorel_.”

 

“I would never!” he laughed, sticking his hand out to shake. “Miguel de Courfeyrac, at your service, but please, never tell anyone about the _‘de’_. My father’s very proud of it, and I am determined to carry on a deep and treasured history of disappointing my father in all ways.”

 

“So, Miguel, then?”

 

He shuddered. “No, thank you. No, _Courfeyrac_ is fine. Most of us go by our last names anyway. Enj insisted when we were kids, and it just kind of… stuck.”

 

Grantaire laughed. “Same, although we went to a fancy boarding school where they called us all by our last names.”

 

“I didn’t know Grantaire had a first name until our last year,” said Bossuet. “And by that time it was really too late to call him anything else. To say nothing for Joly!”

 

“I knew they had first names, I just didn’t know what they _were_ ,” said Grantaire. “And most people just called Bossuet ‘that scholarship kid, you know, the one that trips over his own shadow’, so it was a sweet mercy that he even got called Lesgles, let alone getting his own nickname!”

 

“An honour that not even we were accorded,” added Joly sagely.

 

Courfeyrac laughed. “I bet Enjolras would have loved that. We went to an alternative school, it’s where we met, but they all insisted on calling us by our first names which I think has put us all off our first names forever.”

 

“Your name isn’t that bad.”

 

“Mine is,” came a voice from behind him. “Grantaire, I presume?”

 

Grantaire turned around to see one of the tiredest people he’d ever seen. Oh, he was handsome, and Grantaire had seen enough of his videos to know that he could look as beautiful in anger as an avenging angel, but at that moment he resembled nothing more than a grumpy dragon. One that hadn’t slept for a year.

 

His eyes were rimmed in bruises, and his dark skin had taken on a sickly pallor that made the freckles on his cheeks stand out in dark relief. His glare could rival that of Medusa, and Grantaire felt himself turn to stone beneath it even as he arched an eyebrow and looked him up and down.

 

“That’d be me,” he said on autopilot. It was like the manners that his father had tried for years to instill in him- to no avail- had come out in full force, as he offered his hand to shake.

 

“I’m Enjolras,” said Enjolras suspiciously as shook his hand. He had a firm handshake for all that he took Grantaire’s hand with the enthusiasm of a dead fish; Grantaire’s father would be impressed, he realised with horror. He’d love Enjolras. ‘ _A man with passion_ ,’ he’d say. ‘ _A man with drive. I’d bet he has a_ real _job, Louis. I’d bet he has ambitions, a career. While you’re doing what? Moping around with Paris’ finest drunkards?’_

 

Then Enjolras quickly let go of his hand and sneezed into his elbow, sniffling a little and rubbing his jersey sleeve on his nose. He hadn’t even turned away, Grantaire noticed in relief, or used a handkerchief. He probably didn’t even own one. Grantaire’s father would hate that, and he made a point of making friends with anyone his father would hate. It was fine.

 

“Are you alright?” Enjolras asked curiously, and Grantaire nodded.

 

“Yeah, sorry.”

 

“I’m sorry if I sneezed on you, I have a cold and-”

 

“It’s fine!” Grantaire laughed. “You’re good.”

 

“Oh, good,” Enjolras said in relief. He smiled, the edges of his eyes crinkling up, and despite the fact that he looked like he’d been run over by a dump truck, it was like looking directly into the sun. Grantaire felt a lot like _he_ was the one that had been hit by a truck. And it wasn’t just Enjolras’ looks, although he had plenty, but his presence. He had the sort of demeanor that drew you to him, even blushing and stumbling anxiously over his words- a sun, his gravity pulling friends in like satellites to orbit around him.

 

“You’re wrong about the _Uber_ rate reduction, though,” he said, and the moment was broken.

 

“Look, that’s the risk of working with a company like Uber, it’s the risk that you have to take if you want to circumvent the law like that.”

 

“Everyone’s entitled to a living wage!” said Enjolras, exasperated.

 

“They're doing  illegal things! People have been arrested over some of their schemes!”

 

“It’s- no. No, I’m not arguing about this with you. Not now.” He dumped a bunch of papers on the table and took a deep breath to calm himself before starting to organize them, ignoring the bustle around him as the rest of the group started to arrive.

 

***

 

He approached Grantaire at the end of the meeting, shuffling nervously- a great contrast to how he’d been during the meeting, fired up and ready to take on the world. “What’d you think? Are you going to come back next week?”

 

Grantaire swirled what little was left of his beer at the bottom of his glass, staring into it like it was the most interesting thing in the world. “Well, you’re all ridiculously naive, and I’m still not clear on what you think the actual process of change _is_ , but…”

 

“But?” Enjolras prompted.

 

Grantaire steeled himself and looked him straight in the eyes. “I’ll come back, even if it’s just for the company. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not here for the cause… but you’ve got a pretty good bunch of people here, and I’d like to get to know them better.”

 

Enjolras broke into his sun-smile again. “Yeah, Feuilly’s pretty great, isn’t she,” he said happily.

 

“What- I wasn’t talking about- why would you-?”

 

“It’s always about Feuilly.”

 

“It’s about everyone! You’re all great! Honestly, you’d think it was you who was dating her…”

 

Enjolras kept on smiling though, and reached over to ruffle his hair. “I’ll see you next week, then!” he said, turning around to leave the room with a little wave at him.

 

“Yeah,” said Grantaire at his retreating back. “See you.”

 

***

 

Next week’s meeting kicked off- or rather, _did not kick off_ \- with a resounding cry of “WHO WANTS TO GO CUTE BRA SHOPPING WITH ME?” from Jehan.

 

Courfeyrac, who had just walked in, put his hand up immediately, and the two girls who were trailing behind him nodded appreciatively.

 

“What, _now_?” asked the one furthest back, scowling slightly, as if she didn’t know she was doing it.

 

“Well, no,” Jehan said. “By the time we get anywhere decent, it’ll be closed. But I was thinking, maybe tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah, sure!” said the other girl enthusiastically. She looked happier than her friend, although she just seemed the type of person to have a smile permanently fixed to her face. “What time?” She had already started to rummage around in the messenger bag slung over her shoulder for a pen. Being on the short side, the bag seemed to come down to her knees, and she was having a bit of trouble.

 

Jehan jumped off the table, landing gracefully on the floor in front of her before sticking their hand out to shake. “Maybe 11-ish? I’m Jehan by the way, they/them pronouns.”

 

“Oh!” she said, taking their hand and shaking it vigorously. “I’m Cosette, uh, she/her pronouns, it’s nice to meet you! Oh dear, I might not be able to make 11, I’m going out to lunch with my boyfriend, have you met him? Marius, he’s Courf’s roommate, we just started dating.” She didn’t even pause to take breath. Grantaire was impressed.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” said Combeferre meaningfully. Courfeyrac looked vaguely like he’d swallowed a lemon.

 

“We’ve met,” said Enjolras, looking slightly out of his element. “He came to a meeting and never came back.”

 

“What Enjolras means to say,” said Combeferre dryly, “Is that he gave a half-hour long speech about how he thought that American tourists were the lifeblood of our country, and took offense when we disagreed.”

 

“It wasn’t even that bad!” said Enjolras. “He’s just a bit sheltered, I don’t understand why he wouldn’t come back and get _educated_. We could have learned from each other! His grandfather was the Minister of Tourism, it's no wonder.”

 

“Tourism _does_ make up nearly 10% of our economy,” pointed out Grantaire. He could see Enjolras’ eye twitch at the sound of his voice. While he’d seemed very welcoming after the last meeting, he did seem to get particularly annoyed whenever Grantaire put his two cents in during the last meeting. Probably because despite their new acquaintance Grantaire hadn’t stopped trying to get a rise out of him.

 

“And just over 80% of those tourists come from Europe! In my experience, American tourists are brash and rude. The last time I got caught up at the Eiffel Tower during tourist season one of them asked me if I could rap in French for them, like just because I’m black I can automatically hold a tune. For those who haven’t heard me sing, count yourselves lucky, because newsflash: I can’t.”

 

“He sounds like a dying cat,” added Courfeyrac.

 

“Thank you. And they constantly assume that everyone speaks English. They harass people!”

 

“To be fair, you do speak English. And you were a tour guide for a year, you give off an all-knowing aura.” Combeferre looked like he’d had this argument a thousand times before. “Not that I don’t agree with you, we are much more than a tourist destination, but it is hard to navigate a place without knowing the language.”

 

“I don’t give off an all-knowing aura! I spent most of my time as a tour guide trying not to have a panic attack! Also, translation dictionaries exist.”

 

Combeferre just raised an eyebrow at him. Enjolras deflated, although he still retained the steely eyed look that Grantaire had come to associate with impassioned diatribes on various human rights infringements. Enjolras was not often defensive of his own troubles as much as he was concerned for others.  Sometimes he was mistaken for self-righteous, but Grantaire didn’t think that was true, either. He genuinely seemed to care. Grantaire hated looking at him knowing that one day he would be disappointed, that one day the excitement and drive would wear off him and he’d be like Grantaire himself, worn and broken and uncaring. It was the worst fate Grantaire could think of.

 

“Is he always like that?” Cosette’s friend slipped into the chair beside him, fiddling with the label of her beer bottle. Although she had been withdrawn so far, she wasn’t shy by any means- Grantaire could see steel and bluntness in her eyes that her soft exterior belied.

 

“Enjolras?” Grantaire took a sip of his drink. “Yeah, pretty much. Although, I’ve not known him long; I prefer to worship from afar.”

 

“Worship?” she snorted. “Not on your life.”

 

“Each to their own,” shrugged Grantaire, “although I don’t understand myself. Who would not want to worship such a pinnacle of human beauty, a fiery Helios walking among us? Who weaves words like Athena at her loom, like persuasive Peitho -”

 

“New game, whenever R mentions a god, we drink,” said Musichetta, raising her glass in a parody of a salute before pouring it down her throat.

 

“‘Chetta, we want to have fun, not _die,”_ said Joly in horror. “It has to be a god we haven’t heard of, for our own sakes.”

 

“What’s the difference?”

 

“Fuck you guys, honestly,” grumbled Grantaire good-naturedly.

 

The girl smiled. “I’m Éponine,” she said, putting her hand out for him to shake. “Courfeyrac invited me, I’m friends with Marius?”

 

“Another one?” Grantaire joked, taking her hand and shaking it. “For someone who managed to get himself kicked out of here as soon as he got in, he does seem to collect friends.”

 

“R, you’ve never met him,” said Courfeyrac from where he had taken a seat by Enjolras. “You’d never even heard of him before today.”

 

“Wrong!” said Grantaire, delighting in the contradiction. “I pride myself on knowing everyone there is to know in Paris, and Monsieur Pontmercy is _often_ a topic of conversation among the barflies and carousers. I may never had the pleasure of meeting the man, but I know his fashion and politics, his earnest demeanor and his profession in law and language, the language of law and the law of tongue-”

 

“Oh god,” said Courfeyrac.

 

“That sounds like Marius,” said Éponine cheerfully, taking a swig of her beer.

 

“Was that an innuendo?” asked Cosette.

 

“Yes,” said Joly and Bossuet in unison.

 

Enjolras put his head in his hands. “We’re never going to get this meeting started, are we?” he asked in a strangled voice, while Combeferre patted him on the back absently.

 

***

After the meeting, Éponine stopped Grantaire at the door. “You know a lot of people here in Paris, right?”

 

Grantaire gave her a cocky grin and bowed low. “My one talent.”

 

“Could you ask for me if anyone’s seen a kid- uh, about 12, blonde, lots of personality? It’s my brother, he ran away a while ago, I’m looking for him. It’s why I came.”

 

Grantaire nodded, for once not making a joke about it. Even he could master up a bit of sensitivity sometimes. “Sure, what’s his name? It’ll make it easier, there are loads of kids around Paris.”

 

“Thank you!” she said, close to tears. “Gavroche. his name’s Gavroche-”

 

“Holy shit, Gav’s your _brother?”_

 

_“You know him?”_

 

 _“_ Yeah, he crashed on my couch a while- shit, man, Gav’s like a cat, he does what he wants, but he’s a favourite around here, I’m sure someone knows where he is. Come back to the next meeting, okay? Give me a week, and I’ll see what I can do.”

 

“Thank you _so much_ , I’m not sure I can ever repay this, _thank you thank you_.” She threw her arms around his shoulders and his went around her waist as a reflex; he stood there still with surprise, feeling tears dripping from her face onto his neck. She was still saying something, but it was muffled by his sweater, and he thought it might have just been more gratitudes anyway.

 

***

 

“You promised me beer, man, and now you’re telling me you ain’t gonna pay up?”

 

“I did _not_ promise you beer,” said Grantaire, agast. There was a line, and twelve year olds without proper supervision with alcohol was it. He didn’t have any illusions about his ability to look after children; he’d never tried before, and he thought that he never would. Just because Gavroche had probably managed to get alcohol out of every drifter in Paris didn’t mean that Grantaire was going to fuck up his life any more.

 

“What else is ‘I need you to come to the Musain with me tonight’ supposed to mean? I can read behind the lines, R-”

 

“Well obviously you can’t if you-” Grantaire was cut off by Gavroche’s (rather loud for such a small person) cry of “ _ÉP?”_

 

“GAVROCHE!” Éponine hurled herself bodily out of her seat beside Cosette, and Grantaire slipped into it as she drew her brother into a hug. Murmurs broke out through the group, both Courfeyrac and Bahorel’s eyes shining with tears. Jehan was writing furiously.

 

Enjolras sighed as he walked in, navigating around the two in the doorway to take the seat next to Grantaire. He dumped his pile of books on the table with an impressive _thud_ before turning around to look Grantaire in the eyes. “This is your fault too, isn’t it,” he said with narrowed eyes. “We haven’t had a normal session since we _met_ you.”

 

Grantaire shrugged. “Who am I to stand between two so long torn asunder?”

 

“Do people actually use ‘asunder’ in real life?” asked Enjolras.

 

“You used it yesterday,” said Combeferre without looking away from Éponine and Gavroche.

 

Enjolras glared fiercely at the back of his head. “Whatever,” he grumbled. “I say a lot of things, I am passionate in my love for my country and its people, no matter how astray the ideals of our nation have wandered-”

 

“McDonald's had run out of chicken nuggets,” said Combeferre.

 

Enjolras’ face was turning a sort of dark puce colour that Grantaire found fascinating. He didn’t dwell on it much, though. It’s hard to dwell when you’re almost crying with laughter.

 

Enjolras frowned at him. “Are you drunk _already_?” he asked suspiciously.

 

“I’ve only had two beers!”

 

He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve watched your videos. That’s all it takes.”

 

“Well- I-” Grantaire spluttered. “I just- wait, you’ve watched my videos?” He hadn’t expected it, honestly. He knew that Enjolras had to have seen _some_ of them, because he’d commented on them, but for this- the video that had mentioned his alcohol tolerance had been almost a year ago. He was sure of it, because it had been posted just before Joly’s birthday and that was coming up next month.

 

To his surprise, Enjolras blushed and started fidgeting with the rim of his glass. “Um- yeah, I, uh, watched them when-”

 

“I told him to when I said you were coming,” interjected Bossuet helpfully. “I didn’t expect he’d do it, but there you go.”

 

Enjolras had a look on his face like he wouldn’t have minded if the floor swallowed him up right that second. “That’s not- I just like to know things about my friends, that’s all.” The fidgeting was reaching such high levels that Grantaire was starting to get worried for his (mostly full) glass.

 

Then what Enjolras had said hit him, and he stopped worrying about anything else altogether.

 

Were they friends? He’d never really considered it, in the sort of way where they’d known each other for a grand total of three meetings. Of course they talked, and they argued, and it wasn’t like they were _enemies_ or anything, but Grantaire hadn’t held much illusions to the sort of person he was like to be around. He was purposely antagonistic and belligerent and was often drunk or heading that way, and he could charm someone with an easy smile but never with his actual personality.

Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta had known him before- well, _before_. They were practically obligated to like him at this point. But new people? He could count on his hands the number of people he’d actually made friends with since he came back, and that was one- Bahorel. He had people he knew, and people he enjoyed being around, but they were the Facebook friend type, not the Snapchat-your-face-with-six-chins type.

 

Enjolras was the kind of person who took his friends seriously, Grantaire had known this within an hour of meeting the guy. He was enthusiastic about them, he listened to them and did things that they enjoyed even if he himself didn’t. And Grantaire- well, he didn’t feel deserving of having a place in that circle.

 

But he was honoured that he did.

 

“I, well- thanks, Enjolras.” He smiled helplessly at him, and Enjolras beamed back. He was glad that he could make Enjolras this happy, just by accepting an offer of friendship- and it had been, hadn’t it? That was Enjolras extending an offer of friendship to him, without them ever having to say it out loud.

 

Grantaire felt a warm feeling pool in his chest as he smiled down at his lap. Across the table, Éponine had sat down and pulled Gavroche into her lap, burying her tears into his hair. Gavroche had a put-upon look on his face, but the little shit had his hand curled into his sister’s shirt like he never wanted to let go.

 

It had been a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from another onion article! here: http://www.theonion.com/article/human-civilization-brings-out-worst-in-area-man-27948


	3. OH, GOD, AREA MAN MAKING HIS MOVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumping his gear to the side of the piste with what must be his equipment bag, Grantaire wandered over. “How does it happen that one of the stars themselves has wandered here to walk among us in this shithole, Enjolras?” he asked.
> 
>  
> 
> “Well, I assume that it started with them wanting to put their foot up your ass,” Enjolras scowled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, thanks for the support! i've never been to france and all information about it is from google- except for the fencing stuff, which is taken from my experience being on a fencing team- in new zealand. so if anyone's more knowledgeable about fencing in france, don't hesitate to shoot me a message!
> 
> also, i just wanted to warn that there is a panic attack in this chapter! it's based off my own experiences and is being experienced by the character whose POV the scene is from, so be warned.

 

_“_ _A man dies when he refuses to take a stand for that which is true_ _.” - Martin Luther King, Jr, Selma 03/08/1965_

 

The fencing hall was a small and dingy place, with paint peeling off the walls and yellowed posters hanging on by tiny bits of tape. It wasn’t solely for fencing, of course; in the corner there was a boxing ring, and some mats upon which to spar. In fact, the piste marked out on the other half of the hall was so faint from thousands of footsteps that it was a miracle it could be seen at all, but the fencers were sure-footed and strayed nowhere near the boundaries.

 

“ _Allez_!” someone cried as a new bout started up.

 

Enjolras crept up the side to better view the bout, although he could not catch much. When in motion, the fencers moved like lightning, quick feints and lunges that ended in a retreat and both fencers shuffling on the balls of their feet as they sized the other up. It didn’t look like in the movies- there was no fancy twirling, and the fencers weren’t even engaged more often than not. The clash of blades rang out impressively, but only as a precursor to a fencer taking a attempt at a point, never for the sake of hitting the blade.

 

“Halt!” said the referee. “Attack from my right, attack was parried, riposte from my left, attack was good. Point to my left. Back to starting positions.” He waited until both fencers were back at their starting positions. “Fencers ready? _En garde, allez._ ”

 

The bout started up again.

 

Enjolras tried to follow, but it quickly became apparent that fencing took skill to be able parse properly- probably the kind of skill that came from doing the sport yourself. While he had caught glimpses of bouts in professional settings, the informal set up of the hall meant that there was no electric buzzer to signal the scoring of a hit or miss, and the referee and their second had to track the movements of each fencer without missing a lunge. Enjolras noted that he had never seen either of the fencers take a hit, even as the bout progressed and the score racked up.

 

“Halt!” the referee called again. “Lunge from my left, attack fell short, remise from my left, attempt to parry, attempt failed. Point to my left. Score 5-3, bout to my left, masks off, shake hands.”

 

The fencers pulled off the mesh helmets, sticking them under their sword hands while shaking hands with their left. As his helmet came off, Enjolras recognised the left fencer’s curly black hair- Grantaire looked over at him and grinned. It was a nice smile. Enjolras found he rather liked it, but then he had been finding many of Grantaire’s features pleasing as their friendship progressed, at least until he opened his mouth.

 

It wasn’t that Grantaire was handsome- although he had many features that one might call pleasing individually, they did not sit well on his face. He was out of proportion, like a sculpture viewed from the wrong angle. Then again, Enjolras wasn’t exactly the world’s foremost expert on attraction. Even now, he wasn’t sure if what he felt toward Grantaire was attraction or frustration, although he was beginning to suspect the two came hand in hand when it came to Grantaire. It was hard to tell. He had never been good at sorting platonic feelings from romantic.

 

Dumping his gear to the side of the piste with what must be his equipment bag, Grantaire wandered over. “How does it happen that one of the stars themselves has wandered here to walk among us in this shithole, Enjolras?” he asked.

 

“Well, I assume that it started with them wanting to put their foot up your ass,” Enjolras scowled.

 

“I am shot!” said Grantaire theatrically, holding his hands to his chest like he was in a grade-school production. “How could one of such splendour-”

 

“Stop.”

 

“Such beauty, the blessings of Aphrodite herself-”

 

“I wasn’t kidding about the ass kicking, Grantaire.”

 

“Have such vitriol spilling from his mouth that it might-”

 

Enjolras cast his eyes about for anyone to help. Anyone. Unfortunately, the other fencers seemed to be ignoring them, or vaguely amused in the way one might be about a particularly precocious child, which was no help to him at all. “I will give you anything for you to shut the hell up.”

 

Grantaire stopped abruptly in the middle of describing in vivid, purple prose all the damage Enjolras’ words were doing him, and a slow smile curved on his face. “Promise?”

 

“ _Anything_ ,” said Enjolras fervently.

 

Grantaire thought for a minute. “A kiss,” he said, tapping his cheek.

 

“And you’ll stop referring to me like the next member of the Greek Pantheon?”

 

“Cross my heart,” he said solemnly.

 

Enjolras leaned over and quickly pressed his lips to Grantaire’s cheek. It was a peck, over too soon to give much of an impression; Grantaire’s stubble was scratchy on his lips, he noticed inanely. He could feel his ever-present blush growing.

 

Thankfully, Grantaire was blushing too.

 

Enjolras hadn’t kissed anyone before. It was a funny thing to think of, then; the kiss didn’t feel romantic in any way to him, although it made warmth bubble up to his cheeks. But he did. He thought of the few times he’d thought about kissing someone, but didn’t; he thought about the people who’d tried to kiss him, or who’d asked to kiss him, but gotten turned down. Back before he’d come out, people had tried to kiss him, thinking he was a girl, like he was their property or something, and after too, when people knew but still thought they owned him.

 

Kissing Grantaire was nothing like that. He’d never had control over a kiss before, because he’d never given one himself, and while it had been Grantaire’s price of silence he knew that whatever games he might play, whatever words he may throw to hurt and frustrate, Grantaire would not cross the line between games and hurt. And although Grantaire’s cheek was scratchy, it was warm and clean. He hadn’t even broken a sweat in his bout, although he had been working hard enough that he should have.

 

Grantaire coughed.

 

Embarrassed, Enjolras took a hasty step back. “Anyway,” he said quickly, “I actually came here for a reason.”

 

“Oh? What’s that?”

 

“Well, we thought we’d do a surprise birthday for Joly this year, and I thought maybe you’d like to help us plan? You’re his best friend, and Bossuet and Musichetta are out if we want to keep this a secret…” Enjolras scuffed his foot on the gym floor. “It was just a thought.”

 

“When you say we…”

 

“The others? Courfeyrac and Bahorel, mostly, although Combeferre is coming along as damage control.”

 

Grantaire smiled. “I’d love to, really. You sure you want my help? I don’t want to ruin anything.”

 

Enjolras made an indignant face. “I’m sure you won’t ruin anything!”

 

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. “You know me, Enjolras. I’ll find a way.”

 

“I obviously don’t know you well enough if _that’s_ what always happens!”

 

Grantaire’s expression shuttered off, as if he’d slipped on a mask. “Yeah, I guess you don’t.” he said, and made as if to turn away.

 

Acting on instinct, Enjolras reached out and grabbed Grantaire’s arm. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. You don’t ruin things, Grantaire!”

 

“Oh yeah?” Grantaire mocked, looking everywhere but Enjolras’ eyes. “What was it you said last meeting? ‘ _We haven’t had a normal session since we met you_ ’. I’ve messed everything up for you and your justice club, Enjolras. Not to mention what I was doing before that! The only reason Bossuet and Joly are still friends with me is because we’ve known each other since we were in diapers. Musichetta only puts up with me because of them. I’m a drunk waste of space, just admit it.”

 

“What the _fuck_ , Grantaire?” Enjolras burst out. “You’re not a waste of space! You haven’t messed anything up! I didn’t mean that your presence was a bad thing! I mean, yeah, your main objective seems to be to piss me off, but it’s not like that’s the only thing you’ve done. Look at Gavroche and Éponine, look what you did for them! And you’re not always drunk, look at what you’re doing here. You’re really good at fencing, even I can see that! And that’s not your only hobby, I remember Bahorel said something about boxing and even you said on your channel that you were a professional photographer for a while.”

 

Grantaire looked shell-shocked.

 

“Thanks, Enjolras,” he said cautiously. “That’s nice of you to say so.”

 

Enjolras nodded, before stifling a groan as he could see Grantaire’s expression shift and he _knew_ that he was about to say something dickish and ruin the moment.

 

Grantaire did not disappoint. “Of course, you know nothing about fencing and-”

 

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Enjolras cut him off. “Just because fencing is new to me doesn’t mean I can’t tell you have skill. I’ve been doing kickboxing since I was fifteen, Grantaire, I’m not inexperienced.” He caught Grantaire’s surprised look and shot him a smile. “I’m not some fragile little flower just because I believe that society can change. I’m capable of being terrible, too.”

 

Grantaire smiled. “Sure you are,” he said patronisingly.

 

“Would you like a practical demonstration?” asked Enjolras, beginning to get frustrated. It was a familiar feeling with Grantaire.

 

“How about instead, I teach you some basic fencing forms?” Grantaire suggested. “Then you can whoop my ass at that instead.”

 

“Sounds good to me,” said Enjolras. “How do I start?”

 

“Well, first, you stop standing like you’re about to be lead to the gallows. This is _en garde_ position, copy what I’m doing, good! Now bend your knees a little, no more, _not that much_! Arm out, if I had a mustache you’d be pointing at it…”

 

***

 

**SoberR- VIVELARÉVOLUTION AND FENCING**

 

         GrandR

         Subscribe | 1,063,169

 

**Published on October 29, 2015**

_‘i do kickboxing, R’_

_‘it’s not that hard’_

_pls tell that to the broken blades, ange_

  
  


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**ViveLaRévolution**

I payed for them, didn’t I? And you didn’t tell me how easy they were to break! I was just trying to straighten them!

 

**reliablewiththeLADIES**

u did what? omg r how did u get him to do anything other than kickboxing ive been trying for YEARS

 

**Nicholaos Combeferre**

Courf, why do you have a new account name everytime I see you? And what do ladies have to do with anything?

 

**reliablewiththeLADIES**

u need to listen to this <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vGs0Aow0LAc>

 

**baehorel**

what i want to know is why R has already got a pet name for him

and why it’s ‘angel’

 

**GrandR**

i wasn’t allowed any more greek gods so i had to settle

 

***

  
  


“I hear R has co-opted my name for you, Ange,” said Feuilly.

 

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Honestly, I’d rather have him call me angel than spend hours creating epithets for me.”

 

Feuilly nodded, scuffing her boots on curb as they waited for the light to change. “I think it’s sweet, actually.”

 

“Sweet?”

 

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not like he has nicknames for anyone else, does he?” She took his elbow as they walked across the road, and he relaxed into her grip; the touch was grounding. He missed touch, when he could not have it, but felt uncomfortable initiating it himself. She missed touch too, but in a different way: growing up without it had made her even more determined to take it when she could get it.

 

“Suppose you're right,” he said thoughtfully. “Why would he do that?”

 

She shrugged. “Perhaps you bring out the best in him. You’re like that in some ways. I think you either bring out the best or the worst in someone, depending on their temperament.”

 

“How do I bring out the best in him? We’re constantly arguing. He argues with me for the sake of it, he almost never has anything constructive to say.” He pulled his jacket tighter around himself, cursing the fact that he hadn’t opted for anything warmer; it was colder than he thought it would be. “He’s always on the defensive, and he seems to believe that the best defense is a good offense.”

 

“But at least he’s thinking about these issues. I’ve seen his videos too, you know. He never mentioned anything remotely constructive until he met you. And by all accounts, he never spoke up about anything at all until he started arguing with you.”

 

“I still think you’re wrong,” he said. “But I think it’s more than that, I don’t think I bring out the best or worst in him. I just bring _him_ out, the actual Grantaire- argumentative and frustrating and passionate.” He smiled and bounced on his toes. “It’s a nice thought, actually. I don’t want to bring out one side of a person. It’s nice that Grantaire feels he can be himself with me- that is, if I’m right. I don’t want to presume.”

 

Feuilly laughed. “That’s something to think about, at least.”

 

She was using her considerable height to navigate around the crowds of people that were flooding the streets of Paris. It wasn’t unusual for Enjolras to try and schedule his forays into the more touristy areas with hers, seeing as she was more impressive than him- the bright red hair and sturdy black workboots seemed to do that, and people generally didn’t take much notice of him until he started talking anyway, unless it was to compliment his looks.

 

Also, he was shorter than her. By a lot.

 

“So what are you doing around town, anyway?” he asked, hurrying to catch up. God, he hated people with long legs, or at least people with longer legs than him. Which was everybody. “I’ve never known you to get a sudden urge to go shopping. Ever.”

 

She didn’t break stride as she answered him. “I need travel gear. I’m going to Tibet.”

 

“ _I’m sorry, what?”_

 

“I’m going to Tibet.” She pulled him down to sit on a bench by the side of a souvenir store. “Look, I’ve got it all sorted out, Bishop Myriel is helping me. I want to see what it’s like, I want to see how the people there feel and think and I can’t do that from here. I’ve attended Free Tibet rallies and I’ve campaigned but it’s feeling uncomfortably like I’m co-opting a movement I know nothing about, and I want to learn.”

 

Enjolras nodded. “Is this about the orphan thing?”

 

“‘The orphan thing’.” She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Enjolras, growing up without a home… the only place I really felt accepted was with Myriel, and I was only there for six months before I aged out of the system- and even then he’s continued helping me. He offered to pay for the whole thing. I couldn’t accept, of course, but even then he insisted on giving me a loan, and organizing everything to do with my hormones and everything. And I want to give back to others what he’s given me. People without a home, people without family…”

 

“I thought that was why you were working towards become a social worker, so you could help in ways that you never had.”

 

“Places like Tibet, places without homes of their own… It’s the same, don’t you see?” Her face was flushed with excitement, her hands flying around to illustrate her point. “I’m going to help, Ange. I’m going to change things.” She gave him a wry smile. “And then I’ll come back, and be a social worker and pay back Myriel.”

 

Enjolras smiled back. “You know I’ll support you no matter what, Feuilly. Although it will be a lot different with you gone!”

 

“I’m not going for a while. Although who knows, maybe by the time I get back you’ll have figured Grantaire out!”

 

Enjolras snorted. “Yeah, as if that’ll ever happen.”

 

***

 

**The Importance of ‘All The Facts’-** **With freefeuilly**

 

         ViveLaRévolution

         Subscribe | 453,189

 

**Published on November 09, 2015**

_freefeuilly discusses Tibet and why she’s visiting, and what that has to do with this channel._

  
  


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**jollyjoly**

we’ll miss u!! stay safe!!!

 

**baehorel**

if a strange guy on the side of the road offers you a drink, don’t, trust me.

 

**ViveLaRévolution**

You’ve never even been to Tibet!

 

**baehorel**

_T R U S T  M E_

 

***

 

“Grantaire! Wait up!” yelled Enjolras across the road. Grantaire turned quickly to see the source of the noise, and Enjolras sighed in relief that he hadn’t been yelling at some poor stranger. The road wasn’t busy enough that Enjolras had to wait for many cars to pass, so he made it across to Grantaire in record time.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked as they fell into step.

 

To his surprise, Grantaire blushed and fumbled with the shopping bag he was holding. “I was- well- when I came back from… _you know_ … I trashed my camera, and well…” he held up the bag. “I just feel like maybe… maybe it was the wrong thing to do.”

 

“You’re going to take pictures again?” said Enjolras in surprise.

 

“Nothing fancy!” Grantaire said in a hurry. “Not like, actual photography or anything. I just...  want to take pictures again, I guess.”

 

“R, that’s great!” said Enjolras enthusiastically.

 

“You think so?”

 

“Yes! I’m glad for you! It sounds like it was something you really enjoyed, and for you to have that back… That’s great, Grantaire.” Enjolras infused his voice with as much warmth as he could. “It’s _really_ great.”

 

“Thanks,” said Grantaire quietly. They had walked past Enjolras’ street- probably past Grantaire’s too, Enjolras was pretty sure it wasn’t that far from his own- but Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to care. He had heard what photography had meant to Grantaire before he’d stopped, and he’d seen Grantaire’s channel. He knew that photography was something that had let Grantaire escape from the pressures of society, from anxieties and obligations. If he had been a writer, Enjolras might have compared photography to belief. Belief in himself, in other people.

 

Enjolras smiled to himself as they continued meandering around. He liked the silence, he decided. He liked Grantaire’s company. When they weren’t arguing, when they weren’t passionate and wild, he felt comfortable in him company. It wasn’t like there wasn’t feeling between them- they would hardly be them if there wasn’t always the undercurrent of an explosion between them, the calm before the storm- but holy shit, did he like it when they could just exist.

 

“Do you ever think that there’s more to life than just- I don’t know. Being?” asked Grantaire, out of the blue. A car honked at them. Another drove through a puddle and splattered them with filthy water.

 

Enjolras looked at him incredulously. “Of course! Why do you think I do what I do?”

 

“No! Not like that- that’s you _being_. I don’t think you’d be you if you weren’t fighting. No, I mean, do you think there’s something else out there that makes what we do worth nothing? Something bigger? An ant probably thinks its world is the whole one.”

 

“Do you mean a deity, or aliens?”

“For argument’s sake, both.”

 

Enjolras considered the question with the same fervour he did everything else: passionately and completely. “No,” he said slowly, “not in the way I think you mean. Aliens exist, of course. We’ve had this argument-”

 

“It was never resolved! You can’t just say ‘of course’ like you won if we never came to a conclusion!”

 

“Do you want my answer or not?” asked Enjolras wryly. The sky was starting to get dark, and he wished that he could see the Milky Way spread out across the sky without the interference of the lights of Paris. _Romantic_ , he thought absently, and blushed a brilliant red that he was glad R couldn’t see in the dim light.

 

“Yeah, yeah, carry on,” said Grantaire with a careless flick of his hand.

 

“Um, right. Well, _assuming that aliens exist because it is statistically impossible that they don’t,_ it’s unlikely that they would be in any way interested in us, really. If they had the technology to visit us we probably wouldn’t have anything they needed- at best we’d be scientific curiosities. What’s that Douglas Adams quote? Something about backwater part of the galaxy or something?”

 

“ _Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun. Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-eight million miles is an utterly insignificant little blue-green planet whose ape-descended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea,”_ Grantaire quoted verbatim. He turned to smile at Enjolras and caught him staring. “What? You want me to properly reference it? Douglas Adams. (1979) _. Hitchhiker’s Guide to the-”_

 

“What? No! No, that’s- that’s fine.” He turned his head away and pretended to cough into his elbow, ignoring the way his stomach had flipped when Grantaire had smiled at him. “No, it’s just- how do you _do_ that?”

 

“Do what?” asked Grantaire. The worst was, he seemed to be completely, 100% bewildered by Enjolras’ question, like it had never occurred to him that quoting pieces of fiction from the 70’s- admittedly _great_ fiction from the 70’s- word for word was not, in fact, something most people could do.

 

“You just quoted the Hitchhiker’s Guide _without even looking at it_ , off by heart, the exact quote I mentioned, and you ask _do what_? I couldn’t even do that! Do you know how many times I’ve read that book?” His hair was trying to escape from its tie, dark curls bouncing around his face as gesticulated wildly.

 

“42?” asked Grantaire.

 

“You little shit,” said Enjolras.

 

Grantaire grinned. “Yeah. So, aliens don’t want to shoot the shit with us country bumpkins.”

 

“Yeah! Aliens have no bearing on our lives. Their existence doesn’t impact on us whatsoever. And I’m not religious, so realistically, _being_ \- as you put it- is the only thing we can do. There’s not more to _our_ lives than being. Everything else is superfluous.” He was aware of Grantaire at the edge of his periphery, gaze not quite meeting his eyes but focused a little downwards.

 

Nodding, Grantaire stopped next to a bus stop and smiled weakly at him. “Yeah,” he said. “Sounds about right. Look, this is my stop, so-”

 

“Of course!” Enjolras stepped back. “I’ve got to go anyway, so-”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Enjolras turned to walk back to his own turn off, at least ten minutes back at the same slow walk they had been affecting. He was reeling from the abrupt end to their conversation- _he’d_ thought it had been going well. Anxiety curled in his stomach like an angry dragon, biting at his heart and his throat, making him feel sick, and he refused to look backwards to see if Grantaire was looking back at him. Why did he care, anyway? Although he mourned the loss of the warm twisting in his stomach, that was no reason to be so cut up about it.

 

His phone buzzed insistently in his pocket, but he ignored it.

 

The warmth was a novelty- it had never happened before. He’d never been so engaged by a person until Grantaire, but that was because he’d always surrounded himself with like-minded individuals- wasn’t it? He’d never looked at an issue from a conservative point of view, or any other point of view, for that matter. He’d never felt the way his heart sped up when Grantaire made a good argument, the way grantaire looked when tearing his own into pieces-

 

His phone rang again, but this time Enjolras picked it up.

 

“Enjolras! Thank god, where are you? I was going out of my mind-” said Combeferre from the other end of the line.

 

“Combeferre, I need to talk to you.”

 

“ _Άι στον κόρακα_ , Enjolras, I was worried!”

 

“Combeferre, I think I’m in love with Grantaire.”

 

There was silence from the other end of the line for a moment. Finally, Combeferre replied seriously, “you’d better come home.”

 

***

 

**“Burn” from the POV of Laurens**

 

         reliablewiththeLADIES

         Subscribe | 853,189

 

**Published on November 23, 2015**

_from this post: http://john-laurens.tumblr.com/post/129883389058/what-would-burn-be-like-if-sung-from-laurenss_

 

_my tumblr: angelicafuckingschuyler.tumblr.com_

 

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**GrandR**

do u know why enjy isn’t answering my texts?

 

**reliablewiththeLADIES**

???? i have a phone????? u can text me?????

 

**GrandR**

this way everyone else can also see it and gIVE ME AN ANSWER

 

***

**la fête d'anniversaire de Joly!!!!!!**

 

         l’aigledemeaux

         Subscribe | 3,189

 

**Published on December 05, 2015**

_ce fut une surprise!!!! même de moi et Musichetta !!!!_

 

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**GrandR**

has anyone seen my phone?

 

***

 

“He’s not picking up,” said Enjolras to Combeferre, phone clenched so close to his ear that it seemed like the two would soon fuse.

 

“Maybe it’s because you’ve been ignoring him for two weeks?” suggested Courfeyrac from a chair across the room.

 

Enjolras shot him a poisonous glare, even though he knew none of it was Courfeyrac’s fault, and it wasn’t fair of him to take it out on any of his friends. If he hadn’t ignored Grantaire for weeks, he wouldn’t be in this position, but Enjolras had never pretended to be good at dealing with things in his own life. It was easier for him to get the bigger picture- how the world worked, how everything fit together- than it was for him to fiddle with smaller things, the intricacies of his own emotional well being and health. It had taken him a while. It was only afterwards that he realised he’d screwed Grantaire over in the process

 

“Sorry,” he said to Courfeyrac. “That was uncalled for.”

 

“You didn’t even say anything.”

 

“It was implied.”

 

He dialled the phone again. Grantaire didn’t pick up.

 

The room seemed smaller every time a call went unanswered, walls closing in on him. _Stupid_ , he scolded himself. _You should have known he wouldn’t have waited for you to be ready._ He wished he could be alone, but he suspected neither of his friends would be willing to leave now, even if they weren’t paying strict attention to him- Courfeyrac was on his laptop, and Combeferre was reading a textbook for class. They were good friends. Sometimes he thought he didn’t deserve that.

 

“Hey, Bossuet posted a video of Joly’s birthday!” said Courfeyrac excitedly.

 

HIs hand was trembling. He looked back at it, but from a distance- he was there but not there. _Oh shit_ , he thought, _I’m dissociating_ , but that was distant too. His neck tingled. He felt out of breath.

 

Carefully, he put his phone on the side table before he could drop it, and lowered himself onto his bed. Tears threatened to leak out the side of his eyes. He would tell someone what was going on, but there was no air and every time he opened his mouth all he could do was try and breathe, but it wasn’t working and he couldn’t feel his fingers and he had a headache and _nothing seems real anymore-_

 

“Ange, I think Grantaire lost his phone at Joly’s party, maybe try going over there inste- oh shit you’re having a panic attack hang on.” Courfeyrac scrambled off the chair he was hanging off and crouched down beside Enjolras, taking his hand. Combeferre put down his book and sat down on the other side of him, taking his other hand, and rubbing at his fingers so he could feel it. “ _A lymph node is an organ of the lymphatic system…”_ he started to intone, his calm, deep voice reassuring.

 

Enjolras laid his head on Courfeyrac’s shoulder and let them calm him down. He was glad they knew what to do for him, knew how to anchor him and bring him down. It had been hell before he knew them, his parents unsure what to do about a problem they knew nothing about, even though they tried to understand.

 

He took a deep breath, feeling his lungs fill and stutter with the aftershocks of hyperventilation. He took it in with a scientific curiosity, trying to relate it back to himself and his own systems, to bring himself back down into his own body. Each time there was a hiccup in his breath, where his lungs wanted to abort the breath and start again, but he persevered until they became smaller and smaller, until he was breathing normally.

 

“So, Grantaire lost his phone, huh?” he said shakily into Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

 

Combeferre broke off his recitation of the text he had been reading as Courfeyrac let out a sharp, self-deprecating giggle. “Yes, I believe so, “ he said in the same steady voice. “I’m sorry you didn’t know earlier.”

 

“Oh god,” said Enjolras, pushing himself up a little so he could turn his head and meet Combeferre’s eyes. “You’re not blaming yourself, are you?”

 

Combeferre looked vaguely guilty. “You haven’t had a panic attack in _months_ , Enjolras, and we could have prevented this one-”

 

“No. Shut up. I’m not arguing with you on this one.” Enjolras re-buried his head on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “Not your fault. Don’t say a word. Nope.”

 

Combeferre nodded. “In any case, when you are feeling up to it, you can probably find Grantaire at the Musain. I think he’s taken to it as his base of operations these days.” He let a hand rest on Enjolras’ back. “Not until you’re feeling better, though. Promise me.”

 

Enjolras sighed. “Do I have to?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Fine. I promise.”

 

***

 

The Musain was, as ever, smoky and inhospitable. The only difference today, was that it also contained Grantaire, and Enjolras was in love with him.

 

He thought that the distance should seem huge, uncrossable, the floor between him and Grantaire stretching out in front of him. But it wasn’t. Grantaire had parked himself right by the door- not even by the bar, which surprised Enjolras a little; but maybe that was uncharitable.

 

The point was, Grantaire was beside the door, which meant he spotted him as soon as he walked through it. Enjolras thought that was kind of unfair. When you go to confess to someone, you should have enough time to steel yourself, take a deep breath, procrastinate.  Instead he was greeted with an “Enjolras! What are you doing here?” And then he had to sit down without even contemplating his plan of attack.

 

“I’m- I’m actually here to apologize.” Enjolras was grateful that there were sugar packets on the table to fiddle with. There was no other way he would have been able to get through this conversation. “I haven’t picked up your texts or your calls, and that was unconscionable of me.”

 

If Enjolras was tearing into sugar packets like there was no tomorrow, Grantaire was bouncing his leg with the same vigor. “Yeah,” he said to his leg, not denying it. “That was pretty shitty of you.”

 

“And I can’t explain why I did it,” Enjolras said. “I just- I came to a realisation, and I had to come to terms with it, and you were a casualty of that.”

 

Grantaire let out a bitter laugh. “You keep talking like you’ve sent me off to war,” he said with a sarcastic twist to his mouth. “I’ve been there, Enjolras. This is nothing compared to that. This is a day at the spa. Stop talking like you’ve- ruined my life, or whatever. You’re not that important.”

 

Enjolras felt sort of like he’d been slapped, even though he had no reason to feel that way. _Revised plan_ , the whispered the part of him that never had anything constructive to say. _Get up, go home, and never speak of this again._

 

Enjolras took a deep breath and ignored the voice. If there had been one thing he’d learned living with years of anxiety, was that anything said by that part of his brain should be taken with an entire bucket of salt.

 

“I know that,” he said after a pause. “I’d never presume that of you, R. But it doesn’t erase the fact that you tried to contact me, and I didn’t even bother to drop you a line that I wasn’t lying in a gutter somewhere.” The waitress spotted him and came over. Glad for a reprieve, he ordered a café au lait, and tapped his fingers nervously against the grimy tabletop.

 

“It’s all right,” Grantaire said to his coffee. “Courfeyrac told me you were all right.”

 

“That’s not the same thing as hearing it from the source.”

 

“It’s not,” said Grantaire, raising his head to meet Enjolras’ eyes, “but it’s something.” He sighed. “Honestly, I was just worried I offended you with my… abrupt departure, that night.”

 

Enjolras didn’t have to ask what night he was referring to.

 

“A bit,” he said. “But that doesn’t excuse me.”

 

“It doesn’t,” Grantaire agreed- God, it _had_ to be this he’d agree with, when he agreed with nothing else that Enjolras said. “But it does explain some things.”

 

Enjolras’ head shot up- he hadn’t even noticed that he’d hung it with Grantaire’s words. “What? No! Is that what you think? You’re an idiot if you think I’d stop talking to you for _that_.”

 

“Thanks,” replied Grantaire dryly.

 

“It’s true! No, it was me, I couldn’t deal with how I felt, I couldn’t face you while I was still trying to face myself, _it was never you_!” His hand shot out to grasp Grantaire’s. “ _Please_ tell me you know that.”

 

“Well, I do now,” Grantaire said, looking at Enjolras’ hand like it was going to bite him. He seemed slightly shocked, like someone had hit him with a brick.

 

Then his head seemed to fly up. “Wait,” he said suspiciously, “what do you mean by _feelings_?”

 

“Um,” said Enjolras.

 

“Well,” said Enjolras.

 

“I mean,” said Enjolras.

 

“I was going to begin with that,” said Enjolras. “But you kind of surprised me?”

 

“Go on.”

 

“Well, did you know that you have a really nice smile? And I like it when you do that thing where you can quote anything and get it right, and you have really good arguments and I might sort of be in love with you? Or in like. Lots of like.”

 

The waitress arrived with his coffee. Grateful for something to do with his hands, he snatched it up and promptly burned his tongue.

 

“You like me? Are you sure? I mean, I’ve liked you for ages, but… _me?_ I’m just so… Enjolras, what are you doing with your tongue?”

 

Enjolras looked up from where he was attempting to pull out his tongue and look at it, and said pathetically, “I burned it.” Except that his tongue was still outside his mouth so it ended up sounding a lot more pathetic than that.

 

“You burned it.

 

Enjolras blushed and put his tongue back in his mouth. “Yeah,” he said sheepishly.

 

“You’re ridiculous,”

 

“But you like me anyway,” said Enjolras happily. He was happy enough to vibrate all the way out of his seat, and Grantaire looked almost the same way.

 

“I do,” he agreed, smiling and leaning forward on his elbows. “So,” his voice dropped low. “Your tongue hurts, huh? Want me to kiss it better?”

 

“You’re such a _dork_ ,” said Enjolras, and crashed their mouths together.

  
  


***

  
  


**“DrunkR- HEATED DEBATE FT. VIVELARÉVOLUTION**

 

         GrandR

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**Published on Decemeber 20, 2015**

_arguing is more fun with ALCOHOL_

 

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All comments

 

**baehorel**

im scared to watch this in case its five minutes of you guys making out

 

**GrandR**

would i????? do that to you????

 

**baehorel**

it was five minutes of you guys making out i hate you all

 

**GrandR**

:)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre's greek basically translates to "go to hell".
> 
> *wipes tear* that's all, folks! my trash baby is finally done with. as ever, chapter title is an onion article that can be found here: http://www.theonion.com/article/oh-god-area-man-making-his-move-19911

**Author's Note:**

> my les mis blog is @enjolrarses and my hamilton blog is @angelicafuckingschuyler


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